The Grey Havens
by Westel
Summary: Many stories have portrayed the reunion of Sam and Frodo on that white shore, but only Sam knows what really happened when he arrived, and who was waiting there for him when he stepped onto shore.
1. Chapter 1

**The Grey Havens **

Part One – Arrival

It was grey and overcast that late September evening, the clouds blending their somber shades with the watery horizon until the old hobbit was unsure where the sky began and the sea left off. There was no gleam of sunlight, no sparkle on the restless waves that bore the ship westward. There was only the wind—crisp and cold off the sea—filling the sails well enough but making it uncomfortable to stay on deck. Shivering, he pulled his elven cloak more snugly around him and huddled deeper into his warm jumper (much as he huddled into his mood, which was no brighter than the fading day).

Samwise Gamgee Gardner—renowned hobbit of the Shire, husband, father, adventurer, and Ring-bearer—was leaving home forever. He sailed upon the very ship which had left the shores of the Grey Havens six decades ago, bearing away his closest and dearest friend to a place where perhaps his old wounds could at last be healed.

Sam bore no wounds, nor regrets, but now that Rose was gone he suddenly found himself untethered, as if he had been released by the very things that had once bound him so steadfastly to Hobbiton. He knew that the family he left behind would do well, and the Red Book would be cherished and maintain its place of importance on the table in Elanor's sitting room. He had written the last pages himself, though he had not followed the manner of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. He entered his accounts weekly—daily sometimes, after the fashion of his old Gaffer—noting this and that in simple, yet colorful terms. Had he known it, Sam's entries of births, christenings, marriages, deaths and Shire events were all the more eloquent for their simplicity, due in part to his poet's heart and passion for song and verse—due in larger measure to his love of home, hearth, and family, and of the land he had helped to save, then lovingly restore.

Were they three days or three weeks out? He wasn't sure. Time seemed to pass much as it did in Rivendell on this small grey ship, and it gave him too much opportunity to think. Granted, it was only two months since Rosie had been laid to rest, two months filled with moving her favorite rose bush next to her headstone, culling the garden one last time, making out his will—a busy period where he could not grieve as he should. Unencumbered now, his thoughts were full of her, and all their years together stretched behind him like the wake of their ship. There was time to examine every memory, every family event, every joy and sorrow. There were his children, too, whom he would never see again, old friends from childhood—even the abandoned bit of garden at Bag End. Still, time eased all hurts, so it was said—teaching new lessons and mellowing even the rawest emotions. He had indeed led a wonderful, fulfilled life with his Rosie, and had not one regret to plague him.

'_So why'm I sittin' here frettin' like a tweenager_?' he admonished himself. '_I should be happy I'm going to a place I've heard about all my life—goin' to see Gandalf again, and the Lady Galadriel—goin'...'_

The old gardener shuddered, pricked suddenly by a cold deeper than the air around him. He grabbed the front of his shirt, holding onto something hidden beneath it, and sighed.

"Master Gardner, you should come below and warm yourself," encouraged one of the ship's elves. "It will not do for us to deliver such a renowned guest to Elrond's house in troubled health."

Sam mustered a smile for the youthful-looking Celwain, who had shown him much kindness since the moment he had stepped upon the ship. "Oh, I'm all right, lad. I'll take a turn or two on deck and that'll warm me up. I've been sitting too long, that's all."

Celwain did not look convinced, but left the Shireling alone. He returned soon, however, with a hot drink in hand. He located Sam at the other end of the ship, walking as he had promised, and was rewarded with the sight of a healthy blush across the hobbit's wrinkled cheeks. But Sam was in no mood for conversation, evidently, for he thanked the elf and turned back to the sea. Celwain shook his head and smiled, leaving the hobbit to his thoughts.

ooo

Sam stood leaning against the bowrail and watched the elves busy about their work on deck. Celwain told him they were nearing land but, except for an increase in shore-birds, Sam could see no other sign that they were approaching landfall.

He turned and looked down over the rail, and gasped. There, beside the prow, was a large, grey creature with a long nose and black, bright eyes. It moved effortlessly, keeping up with the speeding ship almost as an afterthought. Sam must have made some noise; two elves were beside him in an instant. Wordless, he pointed to the creature and even the elves, so often indifferent to Middle Earth's wonders, joined in his delight. They pointed and laughed, speaking in their beautiful, illusive tongue. Celwain, the only elf but one on board who spoke the Common Language, soon joined them. His grey eyes sparkled with pleasure as he told Sam how these sea creatures often followed ships in the eastern seas, playing and larking for days. "We see them less often than we used in the Straight Way, but neither do we frequent the Grey Havens of late. Be of good cheer—it is a welcome omen!" he said, clapping Sam on the back.

ooo

Sam stood unmoving in the prow, long after the elves had disbursed to tend to their duties, long after Celwain had brought him something to eat. There it remained on its tray, untouched, as Sam watched the grey blur where sea and sky joined.

'_A welcome omen,' _he pondered. He hadn't thought on omens of any kind since Mordor; all of those had been bad, and after the Shire had been put to rights, they felt unnecessary, even unwanted. Aragorn seemed to place stock in them, though, as had several of their Company. But hobbits preferred no deeper omens than a red dawn portending a rainy day. _'Omens, indeed!'_ he thought sourly.

Then, without warning, his thoughts ran back through time, skimming the years like an eagle over the mountain tops—back, back to a time he had tried to forget, a time when he and his master had lain on a rocky bed surrounded by fume and heat, trying to rest where there was no rest, to gather a measure of strength where none was left. He had felt his heart succumbing to despair then, and his courage beginning to wane, when he chanced to see a lone star peaking through the noisome gloom above him. Sam had perceived it as a witness to things that were too high and pure for Sauron to reach. But had this, too, been an omen?

Sam harrumphed. _'If it were an omen, I was too exhausted to see it, and I couldn't even rouse Mr. Frodo enough to look at it!'_

Mr. Frodo.

Now he'd done it. Gone and thought on the one thing he was trying so desperately not to.

His beloved Mr. Frodo, whom he'd met when he was just a wee thing and known most all his life. His Master Frodo, whom he'd served in the Shire and accompanied in the Quest. His friend Frodo, who alone had understood why he must leave the Shire and mustered the courage to do it, though Sam and Rosie wanted him to stay.

Sam drew a shuddering breath, his thoughts returning to that moment when Frodo had pulled him into his arms to say their last goodbye. As they parted, Frodo held onto him for a moment and placed the chain around his neck. "Keep this in remembrance of me, dear," Frodo whispered. "I'll be close as long as you wear it." Since that day Sam had worn it under his shirt just over his heart. He pressed his hand there and closed his eyes.

Sam had longed for the day when he might have the chance to see Frodo again. For years he had entertained half-hopes that he, too, would be able to go across the Great Sea, but it was only after Rose's passing, when he received a letter from Cirdan the Shipwright, that he knew he was well and truly going. Throughout the difficult days of setting his affairs to rights, packing what few things he needed, and saying goodbye to his children and their families, he often thought on the anticipated moment he would disembark and look into the face of his long-absent friend, to hear his voice once more, to tell him about the now-grown Gardner children, all who haled their beginnings in the halls of Bag End, and to tell him especially of his wonderful years with Rosie, happy and fruitful years.

Indeed he had grown quite merry that last night at the Fairbairn home in the Westmarch, not far from the Grey Havens. He had presented the Red Book to Elanor with a flourish and told a few stories to Elfstan and Firiel who, though come of age, still lived there. Fastred had proposed a toast after the meal: "To as fine a father-in-law as a hobbit could want—may his travels be comfortable and his destination fair." Elanor had done well with her choice of husband and Sam knew that he and his wife would take good care of the history of the Ring, passing the book down from generation to generation until it either fell apart from use or gathered dust as some forgotten _mathom_ in centuries to come.

With one last, loving touch of the tome, Sam announced his intention to go to bed, suffered with pleasure his daughter's and granddaughter's kisses, and cheerful wishes for a peaceful sleep from the male hobbits of the household.

But he was not to enjoy much rest that night; he had nearly reached his bedroom door when he heard Fastred talking to his boy:

"How old would Mr. Baggins be now, Father?"

"Mr. Frodo? That's a good question, Firiel. You know, they say he looked every inch a hobbit just out of his tweens when he left the Shire on his adventure with the Ring, but he was really fifty years old—twelve years older than your grandfather. That means he'll be coming up on—why, that's right! His birthday is tomorrow, September 22nd! He won't have reached the age of Bilbo, but nonetheless, eleventy-four is still an accomplishment for the average hobbit."

Sam went into his room and closed the door, leaning back against it. "Average hobbit indeed," he fussed, removing his weskit. As if anything Frodo had done on that journey was average—as if Frodo was _ever_ average! He found himself breathing heavily and put a hand to his chest, trying to will away the severe weight he often felt. The jewel was still there, tucked away next to his heart, but it offered him no solace. The discomfort soon went away and he finished preparing for bed, sleep eluding him as he stared at a lone star that wended its way across the top of the window.

ooo

The final goodbyes that morning after breakfast were tearful but reassuring. Sam had the deep sense that all was well with the Shire and that he had played no small part in it. He could finally understand what Frodo meant when he said that he could bear leaving the Shire because he knew that it would remain safe in his absence, safe in the hands of Sam and other good hobbits—like Merry and Pippin.

Dear Merry and Pippin, both widowers and their children grown, were free to roam where they would now. Sam knew eventually they would both move to Gondor to spend their remaining years with the King and his bride, Arwen—Merry had so indicated the last time they had visited the Shire. Sam had sent them a final letter just days ago, wishing them happy lives long enough to surpass their tall frames; and also another letter to Gondor, sending his final good wishes to Lord Aragorn and the Lady Evenstar. _'I'll give the white jewel to Galadriel, my Lady,' _he had written, _'just as we talked about on our visit those many years ago.' _

First Bilbo, then Frodo had left the Shire behind, and now Merry and Pippin were well on their way, too, being more like Rangers than 'proper hobbit-kind' anyway. It now only remained for Sam, the last hobbit of the Company, to do the same. So, the final kiss given, the last handshake grasped and the last goodbye murmured, he turned his back on his daughter and her family, descended the stairs, and walked the short, morning trek to the docks.

The ship was there, as lovely as the day he'd first seen it. Cirdan greeted him and gave him into the care of Celwain, who soon had him berthed. Despite the chill and rain of the morning, Sam insisted that he stand on deck as the ship made her way out of port. He wanted to see what Frodo had seen when he left these shores. Only this time, there weren't three hobbits standing on the pier, wiping at tears and trying to smile. There was no one, no sound except the lap of high tide on the shore and the singular call of the sea birds.

It was then that Sam's long uneasiness began to make sense. It had been six months since the jewel had grown cold against his breast, but Sam had been busy with caring for his failing Rose and forced to lay aside any plaguing suspicions. Now, free of work or worry, Sam finally acknowledged the troubling thought that perhaps, when he reached the distant shore, there would be no hobbit watching for him there either.

ooo

"Master Gardner, you may want to come up on deck."

Sam opened his eyes and found Celwain had entered his cabin. A fresh burst of sea air had come in with the elf and Sam could hear the voices of maritime birds calling outside.

"Are we there?" he asked, rolling out of the berth and reaching for his trousers.

"Nearly so. You said you wanted to observe our approach to the docks."

Sam nodded and followed the elf to the deck, pulling on his warm outer garments as he went.

'_So here I am at last,'_ he thought, following Celwain silently to a spot on the rail away from the busy crew. He looked down the length of the ship toward the thin, white line that promised to become a shore. The pre-dawn world was dimly lit and a light fog moved over the water, but as he stared, trying beyond his eyes' ability to make out what lay upon the land, he began to hear a soft melody in his head—as if he were remembering it from a time long ago. As he peered through the mist the melody grew in intensity and seemed to permeate the light that, while he watched, transformed from a pale grey shimmer to startling clarity—revealing white shores that gleamed in the morning sunlight. Sam gasped in astonishment at what he saw and rubbed his eyes in self-doubt. But the vision remained firmly in place as the ship carried him closer, borne by a stiff breeze, and grew brighter as they fast approached land.

"Glory and trumpets!" he murmured. He inhaled deeply and felt as he were breathing air that had been created just for him—so pure and clean and sweet-smelling that he was sharply reminded of _miruvor_, nectar of the elves, such as he had not tasted since the days of healing on the Field of Cormallen after the destruction of the Ring.

It was as if the weeks and months of grieving and fear were melted away by the taking of that first breath, and Sam found himself first humming the melody he had heard in his head, then singing: '_A Elbereth Gilthoniel, Silivren penna miriel__…' _

Had Sam but known it, two elves nearly met their untimely end when his song reached their ears high in the braces of the ship. The old hobbit's voice was still firm and the notes true, but to hear such words from the lips of a halfling was almost unheard of. Indeed, another hobbit—the elf-friend who had long ago journeyed on this ship with the Lady Galadriel and Gandalf—never sang, and the elderly kinsman who traveled with him was too old to manage it, though he tried. But here was a new hobbit, traveling all alone and singing of the Queen beyond the Western Sea!

ooo

The ship pulled smoothly into port and stopped with nary a bump. The world seemed totally still beneath the old hobbit's feet, as though the tide held its breath here at the edge of the Undying Lands. Sam shielded his eyes against the morning glare; though the sun was behind him, the whiteness of the sand reflected her light almost to the point of pain. At the end of the quay was a platform rising several steps and arched over with a large trellis of blue stone. There, under the mass of flowers that surmounted it, stood several people. Sam turned away, not wanting to dwell on the fact that none of them were particularly small in stature.

"Come, Master Samwise," called Celwain, who stood at the gangway. "It's time!"

Sam blew out a hard breath to try and steady his nerves. There was nothing for it but to go down and greet the greeters, so to speak. Sooner or later he must know what had become of Frodo; he hadn't sailed all this distance just to turn around and go back. _'I can see it now,'_ he thought ruefully, looking back at the ship as he walked down the length of the quay, _'Sorry to bother you, Mr. Cirdan, Sir, but could you just hop on the Straight Way again and pop me back to Middle Earth?'_ No doubt the Shipmaster would throw him headfirst into the bay and be better off for it.

But Sam's troubling question would still be unanswered.

He straightened his shoulders and picked up the pace; Celwain was already several yards ahead of him, and he didn't want to keep his hosts waiting.

ooo

"Greetings, Master Samwise. Welcome, welcome, at long last!"

Sam found himself enfolded in Gandalf's arms and hugged the wizard's neck fiercely. When at last they parted, Sam looked at the white-robed figure, astonishment written across his features. "Why, Gandalf, you haven't changed a bit!" And it was true. Gandalf, Mithrandir of old, may have just stepped out of the pages of the Red Book. He looked just as he did on that sad day he sailed…

"Welcome, Samwise Gamgee! _Elen Sila Lumenn omentielvo!_ "

"Mister Elrond, Sir! I'm honoured to be here, Sir, and grateful." Sam bowed, taking Elrond's proffered hand and finding it warm and comforting in these strange surroundings.

"Nay, but it is we who are honoured, Samwise. We have all looked forward to this day, when the last Ring-bearer partakes of favor bestowed upon so few mortals."

Sam blinked, taking in his surroundings and acknowledging the smiles of two other elves in their company whom he did not recognize. "Where is the Lady Galadriel?" he asked, craning his neck as if expecting her to step out from behind a stone pillar.

Gandalf harrumphed. "You are a dear friend and welcome traveler, Sam, but even someone of your renown cannot expect the Lady to leave her responsibilities to greet one little hobbit of the Shire!"

Sam reddened to his ears and stammered. "Oh! Of course not, Gandalf! I didn't… I mean, I didn't expect…"

He was cut off by elvish laughter, joined by that of Gandalf and Elrond, not vexing him in the least, but rather bolstering the old Shireling's spirits as it shattered any notions of this far country being anything other than a welcoming resting-place near the end of all journeys.

"Gandalf has not lost his stringent wit, Sam. Yet here you must not take him too seriously," Elrond remarked, his eyes twinkling as he turned his gaze back toward the ship. "Cirdan has delivered you safe and sound and we intend to make you feel entirely at home." He extended a hand and Sam turned to see two ship's elves had delivered his small chest of belongings. The elves who were with Elrond and Gandalf bowed to Sam and picked up the chest, making off along a path that wound its way up a small hill and away from the docks.

"Come along, now," Gandalf said, placing his hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "Although the Lady Galadriel couldn't be here for your arrival, she is expecting you in her chambers; you must mind your manners and visit her as soon as you are able."

"Yes, by all means!" Sam answered, fingering something in the pocket of his weskit. "I have something to give her—I think she'd like to have it, don't you know." Gandalf shot him a quick look under his busy eyebrows but said nothing.

The path was wide, and the elf and the wizard walked beside the hobbit as he slowly made his way up the hill.

ooo

The room was lovely; built of the blue stone that seemed so prevalent here, it sparkled with veins of what Sam guessed might be quartz, but of so pure a strain that no blemish sullied them. Indeed, the shafts of sunlight filtering through wide, diaphanous curtains brought the stone to life with glittering reflections of radiance. Sam, deep in thought, stood at one of the many doors that opened onto a stony veranda looking out over the shore, a curtain brushing lightly against his arm as it danced in the air currents coming off the ocean.

Sam remembered when the Lady received him and the Company in the woods of Lothlorien. It had been the first night he'd gotten a decent night's sleep in weeks, and the first time he'd been able to really see elves being—well, _elvish_. Rivendell was wonderful, of course, but things were uncertain then and Sam had been sadly preoccupied. But Lothlorien changed him somehow, and he had always felt he'd left a part of himself in that perilous yet peaceful place.

Here, all was sunlight, though he supposed it must rain from time to time, else it wouldn't be so beautiful. Or perhaps it was elvish magic that nurtured everything like it did in Middle-Earth before the War of the Ring. He hadn't seen the Lady's ring but he knew she bore it, knew what it had done in the days before Sauron was finally defeated. But no matter. Magic and such things were too far above his likes and dislikes; all he knew was that there must be a lot of good, rich dirt around here and plenty of growing things to put his hand to, if it was allowed.

But first there was some unfinished business he wanted, he _must_ tend to. Surely Gandalf knew what it was, whether the others did or no. Yet here he waited for the Lady Galadriel to come speak to him, and he grew restless with the delay. He took to pacing, thoughts he had successfully dampened throughout his trip rising to take precedence now.

'_Where is Frodo?'_ he wondered, his heart both straining in hope and recoiling in dread. He crossed his arms and shivered despite the warm sun across his body. _'What's happened to him to have caused the white jewel to grow cold?' _He feared he already knew the answer in the palpable absence of his companion. Surely nothing would have prevented Frodo from being at the landing to greet him, would it?

His turbulent thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the tall, oaken doors opening at one end of the hall—for hall it was, with a raised dais at one end and room for many. He turned to watch the procession and was surprised to see only one individual come through before the doors closed again behind her.

Awestruck, Sam stood rooted to the floor, and time rolled back to the night he saw her for the first time: Galadriel, Lady of the Galadhrim, even more fair than he had remembered her.

"My Lady!" he cried, and threw himself on his knees, too overcome by her presence to notice that his joints did not creak in this extreme position. He felt her soft, tapering fingers under his chin and lifted his eyes to hers and suddenly laughed, the sound filling the chamber like running water. Galadriel raised him up and kissed him on the top of his head, her musical laughter blending with his earthy chuckles.

"Well-met, young Samwise! I am greatly moved to see you again!" The Lady had placed her hand upon Sam's forearm and moved toward some soft chairs near a shaded door.

"As I am to see you, ma'am. I'm fair astonished at how lovely you are—beggin' your pardon!" Sam handed the Elven Queen to her chair and plopped into his, his legs swinging.

"There is no need to ask my pardon, Sam! As if I should pardon a compliment!"

Sam stared at her, taking in the sun-kissed hue of her fair skin, the deeper gold of her hair, and her startling blue eyes that seemed to reflect a thousand suns. "Oh, Lady, it does me good to see you—makes me feel like a young hobbit again!" he exclaimed, waving his arms.

Galadriel only smiled, but Sam thought there might be touch of mischief in her remarkable eyes.

It didn't take long for him to feel a bit bashful under her scrutiny, as kind and gentle as it was. He fidgeted, handling something in his weskit pocket. The Lady's eyes followed his movements and her eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

"Um, Lady, I—I have something that I think rightly belongs to you. I've had it around my neck ever since Frodo gave it to me, but I've always known that if I were to come here, I—." He glanced out the window, then back at the elf-woman who sat quietly watching him. "Well, I've been thinkin' on it all the way across the sea and—" He pulled his hand out of his pocket and withdrew a little packet, tied with one of Rosie's hair ribbons. He lingered a moment, caressing the ribbon, then left his chair and stood before her.

The Lady placed her hands around the hobbit's and looked at him keenly before taking the packet. She began to untie the ribbon, beckoning Sam to come stand by her side. He did, like a child at its mother's elbow, and watched with wide eyes. She pulled back the edges of fine, lace-edged cambric to reveal a small white gem hung on a mithril chain. She gasped and placed a hand over her mouth, her eyes gleaming. "Undómiel!_" _she breathed.

"You've seen this before, I take it?" Sam asked, watching the sunlight play on the jewel's many facets as she held it up.

"It was mine, long ago, when I was but an elf-maid in the halls of Valinor," she whispered, her eyes far away. "I gave it to Celebrían on her wedding day. She in turn gave it to Arwen—I know not when." Her voice faltered and her eyes sought Sam's. "How came you—?"

"The Lady Arwen gave it to Frodo, ma'am, before he left Gondor. It has some power I don't rightly understand, but it eased him during those times he fell into—when he was unwell. He didn't think he would need it anymore, coming here 'n all, so he gave it to me just before he sailed. I've worn it ever since—'til today."

"And has it aided you, Master Samwise?"

Sam considered for a moment. "Not the same way. Don't get me wrong—it did bring me comfort, somehow, but not like it did him. It seemed like Mr. Frodo could actually sense when the Lady Evenstar was singing to him during those dark times, sending him comfort, aiding him in ways I never could. But when he gave it to me and had gone away, it was more like he was still in the next room, within call, like. I could almost pretend, sometimes, in the early mornin' before the sun came up, that he was still there…" Sam faltered and stopped speaking, unsure if his voice would hold.

"It is one of a kind—imbued with the power of those who made it, born of the songs of the Valar, before the fall of Melkor," whispered Galadriel, still beholding the jewel with awe. "It is utterly pure, and faithfully reflects the spirit and grace of the one who has lovingly bestowed it upon another."

Sam shook his head, not understanding, but content that this gemstone of the ancient times had given great comfort to Frodo during the brief but harsh years of his decline in the Shire.

But even as he marveled at the subtlety of this small embodiment of timeless Elvish enchantment, Sam was blind-sided with a sudden and inexorable truth: At the beginning of those long months where the jewel's power waned, when Sam no longer felt the presence of his old master, the spirit and grace of Frodo must have indeed come to an end.

Sam struggled to repress a sob; his breath caught in his throat and the old infirmity gripped him. He pushed a hand to his breast, grimacing.

"You are unwell!" Galadriel exclaimed, coming out of her reverie and placing her hand over the hobbit's.

"I'm all right," Sam gasped, the ache intensifying. "I'm just…" Fresh pain assaulted him and the edges of his vision turned black. There was movement around him and he felt himself being lifted, then he knew no more.

ooo

"Where am I?"

"You are in your bed, and rightly so, Samwise Gamgee. I'm afraid the doings of the day were too much for you."

"What's wrong with me?"

"A little trouble with your heart—nothing Lord Elrond could not put right. Luckily for you, like the elves who have come here to renew themselves, you may also join in this rest. Of course, your years are still numbered—as is ordered by the standard of your kind—but there is still no reason you may not partake of health and youth while you are here." Gandalf leaned over and patted Sam on the shoulder. "You won't recognize yourself the next time you peer into the looking-glass, my dear hobbit."

But Sam could neither concern himself with his appearance, nor the returning strength that surged through his veins even as he lay there. He looked through the windows of his room and saw that it was night. Though the stars were playing, dancing through the gossamer threads of his curtains, they seemed dim and distant to him, and he tore his gaze away and looked into the unfathomable eyes of Gandalf Greyhame. The former pain in his chest was gone, but a new, more piteous hurt had arisen to take its place, and his eyes filled with tears.

"Frodo's dead," he said.

"Yes," said Gandalf. "I am very sorry, Sam. He waited as long as he could."

End of Part I 


	2. Chapter 2

The Grey Havens

Part 2 – Sojourn 

Sam sat up and examined the wizard's face for a long time, summoning up the courage to say what he had been dreading for so long. "I thought it was so," he stammered. "My heart—my heart told me in those early days when Rosie started to fail, and the jewel he gave me, it—"

"My poor hobbit, you have had a long journey, and a sad, only to find your worst fears are come true."

Sam's brown eyes filled with tears that ran unchecked down his face; still he held on. "When… when did he—?

"Early spring. He died thinking and talking about you."

Sam slowly shook his head from side to side, his eyes wide.

"His passing was peaceful, Sam, he didn't suffer…"

Sam choked and frantically looked around the room. "Oh, Mr. Frodo!" his wail echoed off the stone walls. "Frodo, my dear Frodo!" He turned and buried his face into his pillow.

"Dear Sam, please do not grieve so," soothed the wizard, fighting his own tears as he placed a hand on Sam's sandy curls.

"He's truly done it this time," Sam said through his sobs. "Gone away, gone where I can't follow. Oh, Mr. Frodo—all these years I been hopin', waitin' t'see you just once more! Oh, me dear, me dear! I just can't fairly stand it, Gandalf. I can't, I can't!"

And so the hobbit gave into his deep grief—so long held at bay—and wept for the years lost, the hopes destroyed, the misgivings that had come so awfully and inexorably true. He blindly reached out a hand that was met immediately by the wizard's. Gandalf pulled Sam into his arms and wept with him without shame—weeping for the one who could never be replaced in their hearts and memories, even 'til the end of time.

ooo

When he opened his eyes he found himself on a low bench, soft as a feather cushion. He rested upon a down pillow and was covered lightly against the soft morning breeze playing in the trees beyond the small porch where he lay. There was the scent of wild herbs in the air.

Not far away, keeping vigil, was Gandalf, who sat with eyes closed, his hands limp on the arms of his chair.

Sam realized the wizard must have stayed with him through the night. He watched the white-robed figure in repose and marveled. '_I don't suppose I've ever seen him that peaceful or comfortable,'_ he thought. He sat up and stretched, refusing just yet to let his thoughts settle on the revelation of last night. There was a small stand with a basin and pitcher nearby; he swung his legs over the side of the couch and found himself dressed in a silky green garment that reminded him of the clothes Legolas used to wear, soft and shimmering, yet strong and flexible. The matching trousers had been suitably hemmed for his height and the tunic fitted him comfortably.

Quietly, so as not to disturb Gandalf, he poured fresh water into the ewer and bathed, drying his face and hands on a small towel. His eyes wandered past the edge of the porch and onto a grassy expanse beyond, shaded on the far side by a stand of tall trees with branches that drooped gracefully, their long, tapering branchlets in some places touching the ground. He breathed deeply, savoring the freshness and coolness of the air, and felt gladness fill him. By long habit, he reached for the jewel beneath his tunic, but it was of course no longer there, and he suddenly found himself crying bitterly, remembering its former bearer with heart-rending sharpness. He wept, gripping the stone banister and hushing his cries to silence. He wept all the more as the sound of the rising tide reached his hearing, and still he wept as the birds mixed their songs in harmony with the wind. How, _how_ could he be so aware of the beauty of this new world he found himself in—now that he was utterly and unalterably alone?

"You cannot help but be aware, my dear hobbit," Gandalf said, suddenly next to him and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It is the blessing that dwells so abundantly within this land. You cannot help but respond to it."

Sam made an effort to calm himself but only managed tremors and a bad case of hiccups. Gandalf gently but firmly led him back to the couch and handed him a small cup, bidding him drink. It was not long before the hobbit felt himself growing calmer; Gandalf brought a little table laden with a tray of fruit and bread, and Sam broke his fast while the wizard looked on. The hobbit found it odd that he felt no dismay at being waited upon by one of the _Istari_, for that was indeed what Gandalf and his kind were. Sam had learned this and many other things by reading Bilbo's writings in the Red Book, and had been astounded that such a one as Mithrandir would hold truck with a load of ignorant hobbits. But now, on this lonely porch in this lovely, living world, it seemed as natural for Gandalf to be tending to him as the times he, Sam, had looked after his beloved Frodo.

_Frodo._ The very cadence of the name brought fresh tears, but with effort he was able to quell them and turn his attention to breaking his fast. Though Sam was unable to finish, Gandalf was apparently satisfied enough to let him leave the couch and dress, walking among the trees nearby while the hobbit put on more familiar, though no more comfortable, garb. Finished, Sam walked down the steps, out of the shade of the porch, and felt the full sun through his shirt. It warmed him and he turned up the cuffs above his elbows. The sunlight and wind took turns playing with the golden hairs on his arms and his skin took on a glow of its own. Still he didn't notice, no more than he did the lack of stiffness in his hips and neck. As for the brilliance of the sky and growing things around him, he attributed that to the magic of the place rather than to any change in his own eyesight.

But even had he recognized these things for what they truly were, he would not yet have been able to acknowledge them. For his heart was sore and in much need of consolation, and Gandalf was waiting for him.

ooo

"Are you comfortable, Sam?"

"Aye. "

Gandalf knew he couldn't expect any more than that from the hobbit. After all, Sam's heart was breaking—nay, broken, and he was hard-pressed to see what wonders awaited him in his new home. Gandalf, Galadriel and Elrond agreed there should be no delay, however, in telling Sam what he needed to hear, and that Gandalf alone was the one to do it.

But—for this fraction of time, before he opened his mouth to begin the tale, Gandalf would rather have been standing once more on the bridge before the great Balrog and facing its foul, hot fury.

The moment passed. Gandalf settled himself on a mossy tussock and pulled out his pipe. "What do you remember about the day Frodo sailed?" he asked.

"I—," Sam faltered, darting a look at the wizard before returning it to the small _elanor_ bloom he held between his fingers. "It was dusk, as I recall," he began. He cleared his throat and looked out at the sea spread out before them. "Everyone had gone on board, Frodo last of all. I kept my eyes on him as long as I could, 'til he seemed to just blend with the glow of the sunset. I think he was holding the star-glass; I thought I saw him lift his hand—I wasn't sure, but I raised mine anyway. Then…" Sam dropped his gaze to the small blossom again. "Then I went back home," he finished, shrugging, his voice nearly a whisper.

"And you have pined and fretted for him since that day, have you not?" Gandalf asked quietly, his expression unreadable.

"What?" Sam turned to look at the wizard. "What kind of a daft question is that?" he fired, eyes glinting. "I'd be a fool to say that I haven't had a wonderful life, and a long, and much to show for it, too!"

Gandalf's face relaxed into a gentle smile, his expression amused but kind. Sam blinked hard, then turned away. "I'm sorry, Gandalf. I oughtn't to talk to you like that.

"And I know what you're doin'," he continued, his voice stronger as he took up vigil for the horizon again. "You're remindin' me of what Mr. Frodo wanted for me, for my family."

He threw down the blossom, shifting his body so he could face the wizard straight on. "But it don't make it any easier, Gandalf. It don't make it any easier at all. He's gone and that's flat." Sam's voice hitched in his throat and he bit down on his tongue to stop the cry that lay behind it.

"Yes. He's gone, and you are here, and you are frightened, my dear friend."

Sam's eyes smoldered for a moment before clearing. "Quaking, more like it," he answered, his voice shaking. "Gandalf, please. I just can't talk…can't talk much, now."

"Dear Sam, I quite understand," replied the wizard. He busied himself for a few seconds, putting tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, lighting it and giving it a few puffs. Satisfied, he leaned back against his tree and blew a couple of test smoke rings. Sam watched him in silence, his arms wrapped around his knees, his heart pounding dully in his breast.

"Did I tell you his last words were of you?"

Sam nodded, his gaze out to sea again.

"I tell you this not to hurt you, Samwise, but to make you aware that you were always in his thoughts. You know, when we pulled away from shore at the Havens, we could see you standing there, not willing to turn away just yet. Galadriel was next to Frodo for a time, speaking to him, yet when she left him I felt he shouldn't be alone—not while he could still see land.

"'_Don't worry about Sam,' _I said to him, seeing the traces of tears on his face. Then he turned to me, trying to smile, and said, _'It's not Sam I'm worried about.'_"

Sam tightened his jaw and said nothing. Gandalf had never been brief in his story-telling, and the hobbit could see that little had changed in that area.

"We left on the evening of September 29 and, though I cannot tell you exactly how many days we were upon the ocean and the Sundering Sea, I reckon the voyage to be not more than a month. Frodo was quiet that first week, and his gaze was more often upon our wake than westward. He had not given up his habit of thinking aloud; I came upon him more than once, hearing snatches of poetry and such, and once I heard him say:

_If I must leave and thence depart,_

_It holds us closer—heart to heart. _"

Gandalf paused, chancing a look at the hobbit, but Sam had closed his eyes and silently gripped a handful of shirt.

"Exactly one week to the day after we had departed the Grey Havens," the wizard continued, "the date was October the 6th. Frodo fell ill again."

"No!" Sam's reaction was astounding in its vehemence. He sprang to his feet and stood nearly nose-to-nose with the wizard. "No, Gandalf! Frodo left so's he could be healed, so's he'd never have to go through that no more!"

"Frodo knew nothing, Sam," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "Indeed the most he allowed himself to hope for, in the beginning at least, was to gain a greater ability to endure what he must, without inconveniencing others."

Sam glared at him a moment or two more before deflating. "Aye," he said. "That's Mr. Frodo all over again." He did not return to his tree, but sat next to Gandalf, drawing up his knees as if cold, though the day was warm and sweet. "What happened?"

"As you might expect," replied the wizard. "He said nothing, and would have borne it quietly if Cirdan himself had not discovered him in the stern, sitting among some coiled rope and canvas. Frodo was greatly embarrassed, you see, because some part of him—buried so deep even he did not know it—cherished the hope that as soon as his feet left Middle Earth the wounds he bore thence would leave him."

"It was all for nothing, then," Sam blurted, closing his eyes as if to protect himself from yet another horrid fear come true. "He could've stayed at Bag End where me and Rosie would've seen to 'im proper!"

"Samwise Gamgee, do you call it all for nothing that the Lady Arwen bequeathed her passage for the White Shores to Frodo; all for nothing that she, too, hoped Frodo might find some relief should he journey hither?!"

Sam turned to see the thundercloud who, moments ago, had been quietly sitting on the verge, smoking his pipe. Gandalf's beard was stiff with emotion and his bushy eyebrows were drawn together in a momentous frown.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I forgot myself, is all." And with that, Sam settled himself again, his arms wrapped around his knees as before, his sad eyes fixed resignedly on the wizard's face. Gandalf believed that not even a band of orcs could have moved them, and was ashamed of his outburst.

"No apology needed. I forget you are dealing with a great many emotions just now, while I have had six months to adjust." The _Istari_ thought for a moment. "There is plenty of time to hear the whole story—why don't you just ask me questions that lie most heavily on you, and we can fill in the holes later?"

Sam readily agreed, though his expression was still grave. Finally, he could ask the question that for years had been uppermost in his mind save one. "Did Mr. Frodo ever get well?"

"No. And yes." Gandalf watched for a reaction, but Sam only looked puzzled. "It was a long undertaking." Gandalf paused to relight his pipe. "You see, as long as Frodo remained in the Shire, there was never a chance his old wounds would heal. He knew that; the Lady Arwen suspected it, even before he left Gondor. His _only_ hope was to come here."

The wizard stood and walked over to the edge of the low outcrop that led down to the shore. "The Ring exacted horrendous payment from him, you understand. Though for many years he did not use it, Frodo _was_ in possession of the Ring. As you witnessed with your own eyes, during the last year of his guardianship he was brutally and forcefully subjected to Its vilest malignancies: manipulation, obsession, delusion, and ultimately possession—all against and despite his will, which was at the close entirely broken. Though he sought to destroy It—struggled until the very last moment, to the utmost end of himself—he failed."

"That's hard, Gandalf," Sam whispered, unshed tears making his eyes bright. "Though I _did_ see it with my own eyes, it's hard to hear it said so cold-like, from you."

"Yes, it is, Sam—but it is also untrue. You and I know of course that he did _not_ fail—not where it counted the most—not where pity and compassion and trying to save all that he loved was concerned. I think—" Gandalf paused, considering. "I think Frodo, though his will was devastated, still hoped that once he came home there might be a chance for returning to a quiet, yet fulfilling life in his beloved Bag End. He knew his people all too well, that they would never care for what happened in the outside lands as long as their way of life remained untouched. Why should they be bothered if he had failed to put the ring into the fire, as long as everything had come out well in the end?

"But when he saw what havoc Sharkey, Sandyman and Men had wrought, saw how quickly evil's tendrils had permeated the very country and people he had hoped to spare, it is then I believe Frodo began to lose hope. Not entirely, though—not yet, for he saw Merry and Pippin muster the hobbitry; he saw you take up the gauntlet against the Men who had made their unwelcome abode in Hobbiton. But when he witnessed yet another battle—on his own beloved soil—and subsequent deaths of his own country-hobbits, hope ebbed all the more.

"Then, too, there was the final confrontation with Saruman."

Sam's face pulled into a frown, remembering clearly those few minutes that left him feeling as befouled as the days they'd spent in the stinking marshes near Mordor. And yet he'd never felt prouder of his Master as he did then, when Frodo of the Shire had bested Saruman the Dirty.

"Do you remember what Sharkey said to Frodo before Wormtongue killed him?"

"I'll never forget it," Sam said, bitterness rising in his throat like bile. "I've thought on it many a day, and I rue letting the slime live long enough to say it." Sam felt sick as he remembered Frodo's expression when Saruman uttered those words:

' _But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither.'__  
_

The hobbit swallowed hard. "Aye, I remember, all too well. But Mr. Frodo knew the wizard was a liar. You yourself had warned us of the power of his voice, even there at the end."

"Yes, Frodo knew it," Gandalf answered. "He knew it as well as he knew what the Ring was. That, unfortunately, did not prevent him from accepting the prophecy. For Saruman still was not without his wiles. You'll remember he said he was not cursing Frodo, only foretelling. It was because the prophecy was _partially _true that Frodo believed it _all_."

The bitterness receded and Sam's large heart was suddenly filled with pity and anguish for his friend. "Poor Mr. Frodo. To be told that when he was already so sorrowful and weak. Poor old Frodo."

"And so he was to be pitied, Sam. For Frodo was beyond any help that you could give him, indeed beyond any natural healing the Shire could offer." Gandalf's gaze grew keener. "When he began to recover from his illness during our journey here, not even Bilbo could reach him, poor old hobbit. Not at first." Gandalf trailed off, remembering those days upon the confines of the ship.

"But," he said finally, turning and coming back to the tree, where he sat again next to Sam. "I have said it before and will say it again. Frodo was made of sterner stuff than I had ever hoped for." He smiled, remembering. "His mood seemed to take a turn after he had recovered. He took to climbing up in the foresheets and looking west, Sam. I caught him once or twice with a little book and a pencil in his hand, scribbling away. And once, just a day or so before we made landfall, I heard him laugh."

Sam looked up from the thumbnail he'd been biting. _Frodo laughing_. He made an effort to recall what it sounded like: Frodo laughing, truly laughing, the sound bubbling up from deep inside, his eyes alight with merriment. "Really, Gandalf? Well and truly?" he asked, failing to remember it for himself and feeling only a dead ache for the attempt.

"Well and truly, Sam. But it was not the end."

"I don't follow."

"As I said before, it was a long road. One of seeing himself for what he was, for considering the much larger tapestry of which he was but a small part, for learning to forgive himself over and over again. He was still plagued with memories of what happened on the brink, when his will snapped and he claimed the Ring for his own. And yet…"

Sam's eyes widened. "And yet?" he whispered.

"He held on to hope, Samwise Gamgee, best of hobbits and best of friends. And though it had lain long untended, even smothered, it began to slowly grow and flourish within him."

Sam's face was so full of fierce joy that Gandalf had to stop for a moment. "It never ceases to amaze me how rightly was chosen Frodo's companion for the Quest. I see more clearly than ever this choice was not only for that darkest of tasks, but for a lifetime. Never have I perceived a friendship more closely knit, nor deeper delved, than that of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee."

Gandalf's smile slowly faded. "I see that you are waiting for me to tell you that once the small hope in Frodo began to thrive all was made right for him and he 'lived long and happily all the rest of his days'."

The hobbit's features grew troubled once again. "You can tell me, Gandalf. I've seen the best and worst in Mr. Frodo, and it never made no difference, never! I expect he's seen more than he should with me, as well, yet he remained as true and faithful a friend as a body could want, and better. You can tell me, Gandalf. What's happened to my Mr. Frodo, all those years he's been away from me?"

Gandalf shook his head, still amazed at hobbit-kind, and especially the ones who'd kept close company with Bilbo. He put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "He became greater than he had ever imagined, Sam, though he never sought it. He learned, he grew in hope and health, yet he suffered for all of that, for the wounds did not heal. However, " he hastened, gripping the hobbit's shoulder more tightly," there was a change in him that would have astounded you!"

"Change?" Sam asked, still afraid.

"I know what he went through when the old wounds festered and flared, and the terrors that accompanied their memory. I witnessed it myself upon our journey and after we arrived here. Indeed I first beheld it as we journeyed homeward that fall after the Ring was destroyed."

"He was so ill," Sam recalled, desolately. "He'd feel it coming on for days, then on the actual day he'd go through it all over again. Then it took a day or two afterwards to recover. March was especially hard because he'd barely get over Shelob's sting before his hand…" Sam halted, breathing fast, old memories and feelings jabbing him sharply. "He tried so hard to hide it from us, Gandalf. I think he tried for himself, too, at first anyway. He wanted so much for life to be the way it was. But that last summer, looking back on it, I think he'd already given up, though I refused to see it."

"And it was that way here, too, Sam—I'll not make it rosy for you. His anniversary days were just as painful and just as horrible for him. Still, he clung to hope, and was aided by Elrond and the Lady. Then, as time went on, we began to see something we had witnessed briefly in Middle Earth. There was an inner light in him that grew especially bright after an illness. In subsequent years, the brightness began to appear during the onslaughts, and we could see that he recovered faster afterwards."

"I saw it in him, too, especially as we got closer to Mt. Doom," Sam remembered, his eyes gleaming. "It moved me, it did. Neither of us had anything left, but he was clear as glass with it." He blinked, bringing himself back to the present. "Did he ever—was there ever a time when…" Sam was afraid to ask, fearing the wizard would once again answer in the negative.

"When he no longer suffered from the illnesses? I wish I could say yes, Sam, but no—this is something that he bore in his mortal body that could not change until he had put it off."

"What was the light, then?" Sam asked. "What did it mean?"

"Because of the Ring, Frodo experienced what all elven-kind but few mortals do—existing in the mortal and the immortal realms at the same time. While Frodo bore the Ring, this co-existence was blackened by the will of Sauron. Yet even during that time, ones who knew to look for it could see Frodo's own brightness, despite Its evil influence, as you did in Mordor.

"As he lived and walked among us here over the years, the blessing of the Elves grew stronger in him as it never had before."

Sam thought this must be a good thing, but Gandalf was talking a bit over his head. His stomach rumbled, and the wizard chuckled.

"I see that hobbit appetites haven't changed any! The tale is long, and I grow stiff here in the shade. Let us go back to my chambers and see if we can find some good company to go along with our nuncheon, shall we?"

"All right," Sam answered, rising in a smooth motion from the forest floor. There were yet many questions to be answered, and the aching emptiness had not lessened.

But there was a strange, new sensation in his breast—just where Frodo's jewel had once been. Sam didn't know what it was, yet it somehow comforted him, and for now that would have to do.

ooo

"Sam!"

The sandy-haired hobbit looked up from the seedling he was just settling into the warm soil and squinted against the morning sun.

"Sam, come and see this!"

The hobbit got up, brushing the dirt off his knees and hands, and walked around to the other side of the stone veranda.

"Isn't this the most beautiful thing? He's just emerged—his wings aren't full yet!"

Frodo looked up at the young gardener as he approached, his blue eyes dancing with delight. He reached up with a free hand and pulled Sam down beside him. The other hand held a branch steady against the stiff sea breeze. Nestled into a fresh-blown rose was a small butterfly, indeed new to the world, spreading its rapidly filling wings to the air.

But Sam could not keep his eyes on the insect for long. He stared at his master, whose hands and arms were criss-crossed with scratches from the rosebush. Tentatively he reached out, realizing he was within a dream, wanting to touch the dark-haired youth but afraid to end the fantasy.

Frodo dragged his eyes away from the butterfly and looked full into Sam's, his face sobering. "Rosie's dead, I take it?"

Sam could only nod, still transfixed within this strange unwaking world.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. You must miss her so." Frodo placed his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "I wish I could be there with you."

Sam closed his eyes and raised his hand to place it over Frodo's, and suddenly woke in the pre-dawn, shaking and weeping as if he could never stop.

ooo

"You are quiet this morning, young Samwise," said the Lady Galadriel, brushing her fingers through the fine, sun-kissed curls of the hobbit.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he replied, forcing a smile for his companion. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful. I truly am blessed in being allowed to live out the rest of my days here. I know it's a great honour, but…" He looked down again at the path they traveled, sighing.

"But your beloved Frodo is not here to pass the time with you," she said gently, her hand caressing the top of Sam's head.

Sam nodded, the ever-present tears welling once more. He dashed them away before they could fall and muttered, "Sorry."

Galadriel moved her hand to Sam's shoulder and knelt before him, reaching with the other fair hand to touch the side of his face. "Dear halfling, do you think that because you are in the Undying Lands that you are not allowed to grieve?"

Sam blinked, not knowing what to say. He could only gaze into her exquisite eyes and shake his head. It took his breath away when she lifted her hand from his shoulder and mirrored the other one upon his face.

"Nay, Sam, grief has its time and place. You are yet upon the threshold, and it is not enough. Do not be afraid to do this," she added, as if knowing what Sam was about to say. "You do not grieve by placing your thoughts into a box, but rather by putting them in the sun and letting her light reveal every detail."

"But that will only make it worse," Sam whispered, the tears having escaped at last.

"Make what worse, my young hobbit?"

Sam made an effort to speak, failed, and cleared his throat before trying again. "Hurt."

There was the faintest tremor of the Lady's lips, then she smiled and stood, and held out her hand. Sam took it, and they began to walk once more. It was a long time before they spoke again, and when the silence was broken, they stood on a parapet, looking down over crashing waves beneath a tall, white cliff. She drew herself up and her eyes grew distant, as if she were thinking back on the long, slow years of her life. When she finally looked down at the hobbit, her own face bore the mark of tears.

"Hurt is every bit a part of life as is joy, or love, Samwise. It has its own place in our long journeys. Do you acknowledge this?" she asked, her expression veiled again.

Sam did not want to acknowledge it at all. Ever since the day he'd set foot upon the ship that brought him here, he had tried to quell every thought, every emotion that rose up in him like a fountain—every thing that reminded him of Frodo—because it hurt so much to dwell upon them. Yet here was an Elf giving him advice—telling him to embrace the pain that he had been trying so hard to avoid.

He knew she was right.

From the moment he'd first suspected Frodo was dead, back in those days of spring and summer when he'd tended Rosie upon her sick bed, it had hurt nearly as much to ignore his fears as it would have been to acknowledge them. His responsibilities and care for his wife distracted him then, but now there were no diversions, and Galadriel seemed to be inviting him somewhere…

He saw that she held out to him a small wooden box, brought out from beneath her mantle. On its top was carved a simple elf-rune that Sam recognized as the letter _**F**_.

He let out a breath and nodded. "I do acknowledge it, Lady," he said, taking the box into his own hands. He swallowed hard and pulled it against his chest, looking at her squarely.

"I must."

End of Part 2 

1 I have blatently borrowed the premise of the white jewel from Calime (with her gracious permission). Though the particular story where Frodo's dream-vision appears is not yet published, you'll get a pretty good overview by reading her "Eyes to See" ( and the sister-story, "The Chosen Path" ( It is my sincerest hope, Calime, that your new story will be posted soon. – In Eru – W.

2 _Rethe_ March


	3. Chapter 3

The Grey Havens Part 3 – Preparation 

By the time Sam was finally alone, it was late afternoon. He had returned to the stone hall and dined with the Lady, Elrond, Gandalf, and a number of other elves, whose names he was beginning to learn. Just like in Rivendell, some seemed higher and more fair than others, while others were like children with their laughter and songs. But unlike Rivendell, these elves did not seem to think themselves above affairs that mattered to one small hobbit. He was touched by their kindnesses and interest in him.

But it was bittersweet, that meal, because despite his attempts not to, he saw Frodo sitting among them, perched upon pillows, knife and fork forgotten as he chatted happily with the people at his side. Startled, Sam had turned his full attention to his plate, afraid that if he glanced at the person sitting next to him he may see a pair of large, blue eyes looking back.

Sam stood in his own room now, doffing his good weskit and mentally shaking himself. Those were the thoughts akin to wraith-folk, these sightings of Frodo everywhere, dream or no! It wasn't healthy, and Sam knew it.

He went to his bed, picked up the box Galadriel had given him, and went outside onto the porch. He sat on the top step and placed the box in his lap, caressing the carving with his fingers. Somehow he knew Frodo had done the work himself, and though the work lacked the skill of elven hands, Sam could see that Frodo had managed to capture the spirit of the Shire in the flowering tendrils and other likenesses he had wrought. He wondered when Frodo had last touched the lid or its contents, seeing his master's fingers playing over the carven figures in his mind.

Gathering himself, he opened the lid.

He took a long look, then shut the lid suddenly, breathing hard and cursing the ever-present tears.

"Help me," he choked. But who was there to help him, now that Frodo was gone, and Rosie, now that he had removed himself from any family or friends to whom he could turn? Who was there to help him open that box again, to explore its contents, to touch and examine those precious things that Frodo had left him?

For the box was divided into compartments and shelves that lifted one off another, and it was as full as Frodo could have possibly made it. That first glance had revealed letters and scribbled notes, dried flowers and herbs whose faint, sweet scent wafted into the room. There were snippets of poetry and drawings there, too. Everything had the mark of Frodo upon them, and everything was affectionately crafted for the humble gardener whom he had loved.

"He had to know I wouldn't get here in time," Sam said to himself, his voice hitching in pain. "He _must've_ known it." He reached for the missing jewel again and grew angry, pushing away the closed box and trudging over to the stone rail, leaning his elbows upon it. There were clouds gathering in the distance and the smell of rain was in the air. His eyes were drawn to the trees as the wind played with their leaves, freshening as the rain grew closer.

Galadriel had spoken of pain in a way only one who has experienced it can, yet she embraced it as part of the essence of life, recounted it as if it were a natural token of elves as well as mortals. Yet she did not diminish as she embraced it, and Sam could not fathom how anyone, even someone with the wisdom of the ages, could manage that. Here he was, unable to bring himself to search the contents of the box, though he knew Frodo had done it as a labour of love for him. How then could he embrace this pain if he could not bear it touch him?

The wind quickened and rain began to fall; immersed in the sounds of the wind and rainfall, Sam recalled a conversation he had with Elrond that very morning during breakfast:

_There's more about the Elves than in Mr. Bilbo's Red Book, I'm thinkin'._

_True, Samwise, but it is, after all, a very long tale._

_Just seems like a long time to be livin'. I know I don't understand it, but I can't fathom gettin' through more than one lifetime, let alone scores of 'em!_

_That is why we trust to the wisdom of Eru and not our own. The lore of the Silmarils, the Two Trees, Eärendil—indeed our Long Home—are quite beyond anything Elven-kind may approve or disapprove._

Who was this Eru Elrond had spoken of? Why did that name feel so familiar? Bilbo had never spoken it when he taught Sam his letters. Or had he? Had Frodo?

_Frodo._

Frodo sitting beside him as he struggled with the forming of his first letters; Frodo with an arm around his shoulders as they deciphered Bilbo's spidery hand and pronounced the Elvish words; Frodo with cobwebs in his hair as they did the fall cleaning; Frodo, his eyes alight and his voice full and sweet as he sang verses and old lullabies of the Shire...

Sam groaned in anguish and fled down the steps, out into the rain. Without his weskit or a jacket, he was soon soaked through and grew chilled by degrees. Still he walked alone and in private so that he could talk aloud if he needed to, shed more tears if he needed to, and pound his fist into the palm of his hand as often as he wished.

ooo

"Sam?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo?" he answered, knowing he was once again in a dream. He didn't open his eyes, but wrapped his arms around himself and shivered miserably.

"You need to get up. You're cold."

"I've been cold before. And you're not real, neither."

"Should that make me care any the less?"

Sam opened his eyes and stood quickly, but there was no one standing on the grass beneath the great tree where he lay.

"Knew it," he muttered, shuddering violently. "Sam, you're going daft, and right smart, too."

But that _had_ been Frodo's voice. That dear, kind voice with just a hint of reproach—how many times had he heard his friend remonstrate with him for staying out in bad weather to finish up one last bit of gardening or to put something away. Real or no, it was wonderful to hear, yet it cut like a knife.

Now Sam was truly cold and realized it was a good thing he had awakened. He needed to get out of these wet clothes. But the gardener bore no self-reproach, for the long walk and subsequent clearing of his mind had been fruitful—he now recalled who Eru was. The reason he couldn't remember the name was because, in Middle Earth, the common name was Ilúvatar, heard mostly in songs or tales by the fire.

"So the Elves know about him, too," he said to himself as he reached his room and changed into dry clothes. He found a fire lit and a light meal waiting, so he got the box off the porch and brought it to a footstool that served as a low table next the hearth. The tray of food safely placed beside him on the rug, he took a deep draught of beer, a bite of some kind of hot pastie which tasted as good as it smelled, then placed his hands on the lid of Frodo's box. "All right, Mr. Eru, sir, or whatever you like to be called, I need to see what's in here. But I'm a coward, no mistake, and I need your help. I figure if the Elves can trust you, then I can, too."

And with that, he opened the lid and pulled out the first letter he saw.

ooo

Looking back on it, Sam realized he could never have fooled himself into thinking it would be an easy start nor an easy passage, going through the treasures Frodo had left for him.

But what an excursion it had been so far! He touched parchment that Frodo had handled with his own nail-bitten fingers, he read the letters written and addressed to him as if they only lacked a post-mark, he smelled the posies of dried herbs and flowers Frodo had gathered at different seasons. He read fresh, new poetry that had flowed from an unsullied heart and re-kindled spirit; he gazed at fine, penciled still life, some touched with pale water-colours.

Whoever this Eru was, he was a wonder, and no mistake. Though it grew no easier each time he took up a new parcel or letter, Sam sensed a growing strength within that he could not possibly attribute to himself.

For the contents of the box piercingly reminded him of Frodo, and Sam felt both his friend's presence and absence as keenly as a ray of sunlight that vanishes suddenly behind a cloud. And his sorrow and longing were still great within him.

During the days he went through Frodo's box, Gandalf and the others kept a respectful but attentive distance. They seemed to know when he needed the diversion of company, a social respite when his heart had been particularly scored by a certain turn of phrase or description of something in Frodo's exiled life; then again they knew when to leave him alone—to read, or ponder, or simply grieve.

Sam now treasured Frodo's bequest more than his very life, as painful as it was to subject himself to its contents—for though it brought his old friend very near, it heightened Sam's sense of loss all the more. Tonight, he was re-reading the very first letter he had pulled from the box. It concerned the death of Bilbo, and Frodo's pain in losing his dearest blood relative welled up in Sam's own heart:

'_He passed away in his sleep, Sam, without fuss. Indeed that was always Bilbo's way—simple but proper. What a state he must have been in when the dwarves fetched him away on that summer day, without his pocket-handkerchief, poor dear!_

_I miss him so, Sam. I had hoped he would live longer here, where there is no spot or blemish, but sometimes I think he only came along with us to please Elrond, or perhaps he felt he could not refuse the honour the Elves had bestowed upon him. I suppose Rivendell would have been fairly empty for him, too, with Elrond gone. In any event, when we arrived here, I expected to see some great change in him, a returning to youthfulness—for that is what Galadriel told me could happen. _

_But Bilbo did not change, not overmuch, except for his sleepiness. He became more active and awake than I had seen him in Rivendell, and he began to translate again—old songs of Valinor and Laurelindorian and Numenor. I foresaw us making up for the years he'd been away in Imladris—_

_But it was not to be. We are here less than a year, and he is gone—_

_He is gone, and October 6__th__ is two days away. It shames me that I think on it, that I dread it so, coward that I am! My shoulder begins to ache and the arm is growing cold, and I know what is to come._

_Oh, Sam, I wish you were here, to give me your practical, sage advice, to put your arm around my shoulders and shake me back to my senses! But I am glad you're not here even more, to witness this wound in my flesh yet again._

_For that is why I left, after all. I couldn't bear subjecting you and Rosie to it, helplessly watching until the end. Though you weren't afraid to keep me there and look after me, I was too afraid to stay. And somewhere, deep down, I suppose I hoped to be shed of it all. Silly, I know._

_Bilbo's not here, and I honestly don't know what I shall do..._

Sam wept openly, his tears falling on the parchment and blurring the ink. Gasping in horror, he dabbed at the wetness with his shirt-cuff and cried even more at the damage he had done.

"Will I never stop this infernal blubbering?" he chastised himself, grabbing two handfuls of hair and yanking hard. "Frodo Baggins!" his voice rose. "You could've waited a little longer! But you had to go off on another adventure, didn't you? You're worse than Mr. Bilbo!" he yelled, then stopped, appalled. The fury that filled him was alarming, and he took deep breaths to try to calm himself. "I'm sorry," he said, his anger belying the words, wondering how Frodo would have reacted to such a tirade. "I'm sorry for bein' mad at you, Mr. Frodo. But I am, and that's flat!"

That night he lay awake for a long time, troubled by the fact that, for the first time in his life, he had gone to bed at cross-purposes with his master.

ooo

"You are pale this morning, Samwise."

Sam started, brought out of a deep reverie as he pushed his breakfast around on the plate.

"I—I stayed up late last night, is all," he stammered, summoning a smile for Elrond.

"More reading?"

"Aye, sir. I think I've read more in the last few days than I ever did at Bag End, when Mr. Bilbo taught me."

Elrond nodded and refrained from questioning the hobbit more, though the dark circles under Sam's eyes concerned him.

Galadriel and Gandalf were noticeably absent from the first meal of the day, but Sam kept his peace, understanding that elves and wizards were not tongue-waggers like hobbit-kind and did not usually engage in the business of telling all their doings to others.

He was comfortable in Elrond's presence, though he was not hungry, so the two meal-mates passed the time in companionable silence.

Finally Elrond rose from the table. "Would you like to walk outside with me this morning? Galadriel has something she would like to show you, and I have offered to escort you there."

His curiosity piqued, Sam agreed and followed Elrond Half-Elven out into a small thicket, following a winding path that lost itself in the laurel and holly bordering it. Elrond seemed in no particular hurry, and they were soon deep in conversation, discussing the various flora they found along their way, stopping now and again to examine a bloom or a berry or leaf. It warmed the Elf's heart to see a healthy blush upon Sam's cheeks, and a sparkle in his brown eyes.

Some time later, the path ended abruptly at the lip of a small dell, no wider than the tavern in Hobbiton. Sun streamed through the surrounding trees, her rays slanting across the grass, and sparkling on the water within a stone bowl that rested upon a tall base. Beside it, the Lady Galadriel waited, smiling.

Always, always, when Sam beheld her, he could not help but bow, and deeply. She laughed, and sprang forward like an Elf-child to greet the newcomers.

"Greetings, Elrond and Samwise. Did you enjoy your walk?" Her eyes were upon Sam.

"Aye, my Lady, very much. Thank you, sir, for bringing me," Sam finished, turning to Elrond and taking his hand. "You've both been more than kind to me," he said, blushing.

"That has not been one of my harder tasks," Elrond said, a gleam in his eye.

_Stars!_ Sam thought. _Is Mr. Elrond jesting?_

"I take my leave now, Samwise. The Lady will bring you back to the Hall later." Elrond bowed slightly and turned to leave, then looked back over his shoulder. "In time for second breakfast."

ooo

"Do you recognize this?"

"Is it—it's not your mirror?"

"The very one," Galadriel said, walking over to the basin. "It was of old filled with the waters of my fountain in Lothlorien."

"I remember," Sam said, hesitant to get too close. He recalled very well what he had seen the last time he had explored its depths.

"Now it holds water from the Sea."

"Are you saying I should look in it again?"

"If you wish."

"But you can't say what I'll find there."

Galadriel smiled. "You have a long memory, Samwise Gamgee."

Sam rubbed his hands against his breeches, finding them suddenly clammy.

But this was not Lothlorien, which was but a brief resting-place after a long darkness and with deeper darkness yet to come. This land where he now stood was forever free of evil and taint of any kind, and Sam was no longer afraid to open himself to whatever the mirror may reveal.

She smiled at him.

_Look as deeply as you will; linger as long as you wish._

_I will, Lady._

Sam climbed up the steps and on to a footstool, leaning his head over the still water.

At first he was too amazed by his reflection to consider anything else. Looking back at him was a young, fresh-faced hobbit with golden skin and sun-bleached curls, clear eyes under a smooth brow, the lashes long and full, the cheeks and lips rosy. He saw his hand reach to touch his features, play across his mouth and chin.

"Stars and garters!" he murmured, and heard a soft laugh behind him.

"If you made use of the looking-glass in your chambers you would have seen this change far sooner," she said, raising a finger of admonishment. "Now, go back to the mirror, Sam. I will walk among the trees, but within call."

In a heartbeat, she had moved through the bushes and disappeared from sight.

Sam looked after her for a moment, then slowly turned back to the water. His reflection slowly faded, and he beheld a single star in a velvet night. There were rocky hills, and a fretful wind played among low bushes. This scene faded into water—vast, restless waves crashed against a wide shore while grey birds circled overhead. He saw two figures—one tall and fair, the other short and mail-clad—board a small ship, unfurling its white sails and pushing out to sea.

Then all went dark for a second or two before a blue sky and high, puffy clouds filled the bowl. Though he had never heard any sound from the mirror in Lothlorien, to his amazement Sam could now hear songbirds calling, and the music of a nearby waterfall, though none existed in or near the dell. The view changed again, revealing the grove where he had spent those cold, wet hours before finally gathering the courage to go through Frodo's box. Now all was dry and warm, and there were Elves wandering about. The ladies wore garlands of flowers in their hair, and snatches of song and Elf-lore could be heard in the distance.

Sam felt himself moving forward, deeper into the copse, and presently saw a small figure sitting with his back against a tree, paper and pencil in hand. As he grew closer, Sam caught his breath, holding it so that he could better hear…

For it was indeed Frodo Baggins sitting there. He had been writing verse…

And he was singing.

ooo

Sam walked in a half-daze back to his chambers, escorted gently and silently by Galadriel, who knew not to disturb his thoughts. He barely had the wherewithal to bow to her as she left him, and collapsed upon the porch steps, second breakfast forgotten.

Too well Sam knew that the mirror may well show the past or the future, or what might be only if certain courses were held, but nothing could persuade him that the sight of Frodo singing in the grove was anything but genuine.

After a long time he got up, and went to the box and pulled back the second shelf, revealing the contents at the bottom. He had already gone through everything in this section except for a small crimson envelope which was not only sealed, but corded. For days, some instinct had told him to forego opening it, had held him back from revealing its contents. Even now he didn't know if this was the appropriate time, but the vision of Frodo singing stirred him so strongly he felt unable to wait any longer. Sam's hands shook as he broke the seal and untied the cording, revealing another, smaller envelope—it reminded him of the official documents he'd handled so often in the Shire—certificates and wills and such. Frodo's familiar handwriting was on the outside, but in Elvish script:

_For Sam, when he's ready_

"Now how did he know I'd start to pick up some Elvish?" he wondered.

In fact, he had 'picked up' a great deal. He was surrounded by it, after all, and much of it was blended with the Common Tongue in his conversations with Elrond, Galadriel, and even Gandalf. He had begun to understand what Frodo was talking about in Rivendell, where he said the Elven songs seemed to unravel themselves in his mind. And he already knew the letters, for Frodo himself had taught him.

He looked long at the envelope, turning it over in his hands and brushing away imagined flecks of dust. At last he broke from his reverie and walked over to his bed, standing at its side for a moment, thinking.

"Not yet, Mr. Frodo," he said finally, kissing the script and laying the unopened letter upon his pillow before turning away.

"Not just yet."

ooo

"Sam?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo?" Sam answered, his eyes closed and his hands behind his head as he reclined on the couch in the porch.

"Are you still mad at me?"

"I had no cause to be so angry."

"Of course you did! But I had to go. It was my time, you see."

"If you say so."

Sam heard a sigh, so close that if he reached out a hand. . .

"Will you answer one question?"

"What's that?" Sam answered, unwilling to open his eyes, knowing that no one would be there.

"Can you let go? Can you put away the past and enjoy the time that remains? Can you be happy?"

Sam grimaced. "How can you ask me that?"

There was the sound of soft laughter. "Because I earned the right."

Sam felt the brush of fingertips on his shoulder and, unable to fight the urge any longer, opened his eyes.

Frodo was leaning over him, smiling gently. "I was happy, Sam. I _am_ happy."

The envelope that was lying on Sam's chest slid to the floor and Sam awoke, looking wildly around him. Night was waning, the setting moon reflecting palely off the coverlet of his bed.

He glanced down and leaned over to pick up the fallen letter. The seal had cracked and he could see several pieces of folded parchment beneath the flap. Almost he opened it, but Frodo's last words in the dream came back to him with sudden clarity:

_Can you put away the past and enjoy the time that remains?_

He threw the covers back and sat on the edge of his bed, tightly grasping the envelope in his capable hands.

"You lived a long life here," Sam whispered. "You suffered, but you grew, and you were happy."

He blinked to clear his vision and stood up. There was a new resolve in his features as he walked over to the fireside table to Frodo's box. Raising the lid and pulling out the shelves, he placed the letter in its niche, replaced the shelves, and closed the box. Then he retraced his steps to the bed and pulled from under it his own small trunk. He withdrew some articles of clothing, revealing a small lap-desk in the very bottom. Sam moved it aside, his fingers lingering upon the smooth wood for a moment, and laid Frodo's box beside it before covering them both again with his clothes and closing the lid.

Night was beginning to fade—soon the Sun would be up. Sam stood and stretched, and padded over to a small bureau where he kept his Elven-cloak and jacket, and a canvas bag he had used to haul seed and other sundries around the countryside in the early days of healing the Shire. He had used it many times since then, too—for treks in the woods, or picnics with the children, or for bringing home cuttings from other gardens to please his Rose. He had not thought of it since the day he'd arrived, nor could he, for it contained seeds he had carefully saved and labeled, looking forward to the day when he would plant them and exult with Frodo over every Shire plant or flower they produced.

"Well, Mr. Frodo," he said, as he brought out packet after packet and lay them in order on a table. "I _can_ be happy here, for awhile anyway, as long as I can tend to my seeds and plantings."

He began to dress, and a pleasant rumble filled his belly as he thought of breakfast, which should soon be ready, and of the company who called him one of their own, and of the prospect of days in the sunshine and rain, where he could have his own bit of garden again.

"I reckon your last letter will keep, Mr. Frodo," he said, pulling on his weskit. Looking out the porch door onto the lawn beyond, he fancied he could see a dark-haired youth running through the dawn-kissed grass, and hear the faint sound of laughter carried away on the breeze.

He buttoned the last button and looked at himself in the mirror. A young and radiant hobbit looked back at him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"And I reckon I'll keep, too," he added, nodding to his image and turning away.

For awhile.

End of Part 3


	4. Chapter 4

The Grey Havens Part 4 –Departure So it was that Frodo's last letter to Sam lay safely in box he had crafted, next to the lap-desk that had also belonged to him—the one Rosie found in Frodo's old bedroom years after he had left Middle Earth. Sam had put it away, and began a new life among the elven-folk. For nearly twenty years he walked the length and breadth of the country surrounding the Elven-Hall, learning herb-lore, planting his Shire seeds, mixing comfortably with non-hobbit folk, and slowly healing from a deep hurt and a sore. Sometimes he would open the box and finger the letter, but each time his heart told him to wait a little longer. 

_Not yet_, a familiar voice seemed to say. _Not just yet_.

He often thought, during those long days of peace, that he would like to go to where Frodo's body had been laid to rest. Gandalf had offered to take him, but to Sam the offer seemed half-hearted, the wizard mumbling something about a boat ride and a night spent under the stars—meaning no shelter—and Sam suspected old Greyhame had grown rather fond of having a roof over his head and a footstool at his feet. But the hobbit was no fool—he knew there must be a deeper reason, and for his part, he realized that he was not ready to see Frodo's name etched in stone.

ooOOoo

Sam still dreamed. But the dreams had altered—providing sharply-drawn windows into Frodo's life in the Undying Lands—brief but clear vignettes which played themselves out as if Sam were actually seeing them with his living eyes. Beautiful yet painful they were at first, the very sight of his friend burning Sam's heart like a brand, but as the months and years went by, they no longer hurt as much, leaving behind rather a deep sense of calm as he lingered in that far, sweet land. Indeed, after several years had passed, he found that he no longer clung to his dreams as he used. Slowly, slowly—emerging so gradually from his grief and pain that even he did not at first recognize it—Sam came to cherish them for what they truly were.

For the dreams could only be gifts from Ilúvatar, who had given Sam the courage to open the box, and who now brought comfort to a lonely hobbit bereft of his dearest friend.

ooOOoo

Then, at the end of the third growing season in his nineteenth year, (for there were no winters in the Undying Lands, just times of respite when only tree, leaf and sky quietly blended their gentle colours), Sam began to feel restless and took to walking alone in the copse outside his room. Often he would waken in the middle of the night, thinking he had heard a familiar voice, and sink back onto his pillow with a sharp sense of bereavement. Yet his days were cheerful, and he carried on with his hobbies and projects as though nothing had changed.

Still, others were watching, and they knew deep in their hearts that this had been the last growing season for Samwise Gamgee.

ooOOoo

"I feel the need for a change, somehow," he murmured, sipping his tea as he sat on the steps of the porch outside his room.

"There is no change here, Sam, where the Blessed reside until the end of all things," said Gandalf, who sat upon a cushion a few steps below Sam, smoking his pipe and blowing coloured rings into the twilight.

"But I'm not one of the Blessed, though surely it has been a blessing to live here all this time," the hobbit replied, inhaling the fragrance of his tea and looking out over the grassy sward, his eyes following the well-worn path into the small grove of trees where he now spent so much of his time.

Gandalf only smiled, and though Sam was not looking at him, he felt it, and smiled himself, though it was tinged with sorrow.

"Did Frodo feel the same, when it was time for him to leave?"

"He did," replied the wizard, "but he was not at peace with it at first."

"You said—I remember you said he waited as long as he could." Sam sighed despite himself; even now, he could not completely escape the anguish of that awful moment when all pretending had failed and he knew at last that Frodo had indeed died from the world.

"Yes, he did. He wanted, more than anything, to see you again." Gandalf paused and tamped his pipe, clearing his throat. "He often spoke of the pain he had caused you when he left, and of his longing to see and know your growing family."

Sam listened quietly, his eyes prickling. None of what the wizard was telling him was revelation—for he had learned much of Frodo's thoughts and doings through the letters and the dreams—and it was true, what Gandalf had told him, that Frodo had grown and learned and gained vast wisdom in his sojourn here, but not without cost, and not without the anniversary reminders of just how mortal he was. It was then no surprise to Sam to hear of Frodo's distress on his behalf—but that did nothing to lessen the grief it brought him now.

"I hate… I hate thinking on it, Gandalf. On his dying, I mean. I wish—"

The wizard seemed to read his thoughts. "Sam, surely you cannot believe that in the end Frodo was torn from life, unwilling to leave but forced to do so by the burden of his flesh?"

"No, of course not," Sam said, pondering the question even as he strove to answer it. "Well, maybe at first I felt that way, knowing that Mr. Frodo would never leave me willingly, for any reason. But Gandalf, if our parting at the Grey Havens has taught me anything, it is that our choices mustn't be what we want, but what is right."

Sam stood up, leaving his empty cup and walking down the few steps to Gandalf. He paused, looking out on the fading lawn and listening to a fresh breeze in the treetops beyond. Then he sat down again, his arm solid against the wizard's. "Frodo was happy here," he said, his eyes gleaming.

Gandalf lowered his pipe and followed Sam's gaze to the swaying trees. "Yes," he said fondly. "He was indeed." He leaned forward and peered into the hobbit's face. "Are you?"

The gardener answered with a long release of air from his lungs, and Gandalf felt a small hand slip around his back as far as it could reach. Sam was looking at him intently, his lashes wet, and the wizard switched his pipe to his other hand and laid his free arm around Sam's shoulders.

"I _am_ happy, Gandalf, and I think the world of everyone—the Lady, Elrond, all the others I've met and come to know—you." With that last word the tears began to spill over, but Sam made no effort to wipe them away. "I've been reading Mr. Frodo's letters again. All but one, and that must wait yet a little. It's through them I've seen what he finally came to see."

"Ah, I thought you might have done," answered Gandalf sagely.

"You knew he was writing to me?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. At first it was to try to assuage his deep longing for you, at my own encouragement, if I may boast. He was so troubled when his beloved Bilbo died, you see."

"So that _was_ his first letter," Sam commented. "They weren't dated or numbered. Strange that it was the first one I ever read."

"No doubt he left it where you hand would most likely fall upon it when you first beheld the contents of the box."

"Maybe," Sam replied, but wondering nonetheless. "But this one letter does have a date on it, a month rather—March." He pulled his arm back and folded it with the other over his breast, feeling suddenly chilled. "I believe it's the last letter he ever wrote. I don't think he lingered long after that."

"No, he didn't," Gandalf murmured, his eyes remote as he gazed once more on distant memories. But he kept his arm around those small, trembling shoulders.

"He confided in you, then?"

"Always, and to my great joy, dear Samwise."

Sam smiled at him, his chin trembling. Then, to the wizard's surprise and delight, he threw himself into Mithrandir's arms, hugging him with all his hobbit-might, which is not insubstantial. There they sat for some minutes, the white-clad Istari holding the small perian until he was able again to speak: "Oh, Gandalf, I'm that glad Mr. Frodo had you with him!" Sam sniffed loudly and tried to compose himself, withdrawing gently from Gandalf's embrace. "That glad, truly," he said, fishing for a handkerchief.

The wizard smiled fondly upon Samwise Gamgee. "As am I, Sam, dearest of hobbits."

The hobbit and wizard exchanged a long glance—and something, some knowledge seemed to pass from one to the other. Sam nodded slowly, as if coming to his decision at last.

"Will you go with me, then? I know it will mean a bit of roughing it, but I don't think I can go alone."

The briefest flash of pain—or perhaps grief—passed across Gandalf Greyhame's features before the following smile washed it away.

"It would be my deepest honour." And with that, he stood and bowed low.

"Then it's settled," Sam replied, standing and bowing in turn, feeling a bit bashful before Gandalf's grave courtesy. "Well," he said brightly, slapping his hands to his stomach. "I'm famished, Gandalf! Surely they'll be ringing the supper bell by now."

And, as if waiting for its cue, the silver throbbing of a hand-bell was heard in the distance.

"Trust your stomach, Sam, to know the time of the next meal!"

And so it was that wizard and hobbit went to their last evening meal together.

But one.

ooOOoo

As was habit, breakfast took place as the sun came up. Conversation was almost normal and Sam ate well, though he noticed Gandalf partook of little. Saying goodbye was infinitely harder, however, for Sam would not be coming back. His old room echoed now, the wardrobe empty, his few belongings packed away in the trunk. All he planned to take with him was his Elven cloak and brooch, his canvas bag stocked with provisions for the journey, and Frodo's last letter, tucked safely away in his weskit pocket.

At the time of their departure, there were soft words of parting and farewell. Galadriel kissed him on both cheeks; even the lordly Elrond pulled him into an embrace, whispering '_Namárië_' before letting him go.

And there were other elves who stood by the path as Gandalf and Sam walked away, calling gentle goodbyes and pressing flowers into the hobbit's hands as he smiled and spoke to them in their own tongue.

But as they moved into Sam's little grove of trees, he wiped his face with his sleeve, shrugged the strap of his bag into a more comfortable position across his shoulder, and picked up the pace. He never looked back.

They walked until mid-day, stopping to rest in the shade of a low, stony outcropping along the path, which had slowly wound its way northward and upward until they could see a good deal of the eastern shore and the great Sea beyond.

Sam felt in a hurry, however, the restlessness growing now that the journey was at last undertaken, and did not linger long over his meal. Gandalf for his part was tireless and ready to resume their walk without question or complaint.

By mid-afternoon the path turned downward again and a little west, and soon Sam could hear the sound of a waterfall. Each turn of the path brought the sound nearer, and it was not long before they emerged at the base of the fall. Though not massive, it was beautiful, and cast rainbows about its stony feet. Sam suddenly recognized it as the waterfall he had seen in the Lady's Mirror years ago. Nearby, built into the shore of the narrow river winding away from the torrent, was a wharf of stone where several small boats were tied. Gandalf walked to one immediately and climbed in, holding out his hand to Sam. Strangely, the hobbit felt no trepidation about trusting himself to such a small vessel, and climbed in.

There were no paddles, but the elven rope untied itself as soon as he was settled and the boat turned out into the deep stream, keeping a middle course and following the current that, though swift, was smooth. As they floated along, Sam had the peculiar feeling that they were moving back through time, or maybe out of time altogether, and he felt his heart grow strangely light with a vast sense of expectation.

ooOOoo

The sun set early behind the westward hills, the last beams settling on a small, grassy outcrop Sam could just discern in the distance, backed by tall evergreens. As they neared the edge, the boat turned into the rocks at the shoreline, settling against another stone wharf, similar to but smaller than the one at the waterfall. Gandalf and Sam climbed out of the boat and tied it to the mooring, taking out the few things they had brought with them.

Sam stood still for a minute, looking around him and sniffing the air. There was a deep, green smell, cast by the tall hemlocks and cedars covering all the hills around them. The sun gave once last wink through their lofty branches and bid them goodnight, leaving her soft glow upon the treetops and highest rocks as wizard and hobbit made their way across the turf to a site near the edge of the forest.

"We'll make camp here," said Gandalf.

Sam hesitated and looked off into the trees. "Can't we go on, then?"

"It is another hour's journey from here, up into the westward hills," Gandalf replied. "Better to go after sunrise," he finished hoarsely, walking under the adjacent trees and gathering deadwood for their fire. Sam had brought neither flint nor tinder, but the wizard soon had a good fire going within a stone ring that bore the marks of many fires. There were other flat rocks around the perimeter of the fire, low enough for hobbit-legs, and wizard and hobbit were soon seated side-by-side, the flames lighting their faces with it's cheerful, dancing glow.

Their meal was cold, but there were tea and biscuits to follow, and Gandalf brought out his ever-present pipe, the last gift from Bilbo before they left Rivendell together. Sam no longer smoked, indeed had not since he'd left the shores of Middle Earth, but delighted in watching the wizard partake of what could only be distant generations of Old Toby, brought to the Undying Lands many years ago.

Long they sat there, in comfortable silence, while the stars came out and moved across the heavens, escort to Eärendil as he looked down upon the two travelers. Finally Gandalf Greyhame shook the last embers of his pipe into the fire and announced he was going to bed, giving the Last Ring-bearer the privacy he needed.

Sam's hand had been clutching Frodo's letter in his pocket since they had finished their supper, and as soon as Gandalf grew still under his blanket, he pulled it out.

Sam turned it over in his hands, smoothing the front with his sturdy fingers, touching the broken wax seal on the back, knowing that once he had opened it, there would be no going back.

'_And why should I want to go back?'_ he wondered. _Everything has its own beginning, and its own end—even the Elves say so._

Gandalf stirred in his sleep and Sam looked at him, memories of their long acquaintance flashing randomly in his mind. Wizards knew where they came from and where they were going (except for Saruman, of course, whose spirit vanished forever in the Shire long ago). Elves spoke of their long home after they had grown tired of their immortal lives. And Men…

Men bore the _'gift of Ilúvatar'_. Sam didn't rightly understand it, but he figured that all mortal folk—Men, Dwarves and Hobbits—must share the same legacy. For a long time he had misunderstood the 'gift' of Death, for dying meant losing someone and having only a memory to hold onto. Dying meant crumbling into dust and losing every vestige of personality and mind. Dying was—an unrelenting end.

Frodo had originally believed this himself, or so Sam derived from his letters. Now he understood why there were no dates—the gardener perceived great contrasts among them, first one that had been written in near-despair and another in burgeoning hope. He continued read them in no particular order all the years he dwelled among the Elves—because through the light and dark, through the joy and grief expressed in their pages, he learned what Frodo learned.

The dreams characteristically confirmed this lesson, allowing Sam to see Frodo's long discovery and increase, a gradual letting go—and an acquiring of the final and ultimate knowledge—

That Death was not an abyss, but a doorway.

ooOOoo

Now, at last, he felt the time had come. He leaned over and stirred the embers of the fire to draw forth more light, turned the envelope over, and raised the flap. He took a deep breath, pulled out the letter and began to read:

_March 23_

_Dear Sam,_

_I feel very close to you tonight, the last night I will sleep in my old bed in the Elven Hall. The star-flies are out just this week, gliding over the grass toward the small grove of trees outside my room, and I remember those last summer nights we spent together, looking out over the garden, smoking our pipes and watching the night insects._

_Did you know I still have the watch-fob you made me my first spring in Bag End? Of course, Bilbo was in on the secret, and had the smithy over in Bywater make the silver chain and clasp for it, but the true beauty lay in the intertwining of my and Uncle's hair—light and dark brown—so subtle yet so intricate, and wrought by someone so young. I had to go right out and purchase a watch for it, it was so beautiful. I knew there was something special about you from the very first day I met you, Sam, but I think this is my first vivid recollection of it. _

_I'm all packed now, though I don't take much with me except your watch fob and one or two other things I can't bring myself to part with. Tomorrow Gandalf and I will journey to the place where Bilbo lies, though usually we go there on our birthday. It's silly of me, I know, but I've always kept a calendar of the days and months of the Shire—it comforts me somehow, knowing what you and your family must be about during the different seasons (though here we don't see much change). But it has its downfalls, Sam. Without it I may not have known that two days hence will be another anniversary of the day the Ring went into Orodruin's fire, and my finger with it. But I fool myself, because I always know, calendar or not._

_I suppose it is partly due to living in this pure and gentle place, unsullied by any evil, but mostly due to my connection to you—oh yes! Don't think that hasn't been a comfort to me, Sam, for though I don't have the heart and spirit of the Lady Arwen, there's enough in me that, with the Jewel's help, I have some sense of the events taking place in your life: the great love that welled in your heart at the birth of your children, the peace and security of being well-known and well-loved in the Shire, the position of honour you held for many years, though you now spend all your time with your lovely, lovely Rose. I can sense her fading even as I write this and realize that the time will soon come when she must be laid to rest. _

_I'm rambling, Sam—you know, I think I become more like Bilbo every day! What I am trying to say is that I have known all along your great desire for us to meet again. It was always my dream, too, one that has served to sustain me for many years, especially after I felt hope daily renewing and began to weather the 'anniversaries' so much better. I realized that I had a future here, and a purpose beyond the Shire, as we all do within the confines of our Living Days._

_I'm writing this letter now because I've finally got it through my thick head that there is more. . ._

_Funny, but I think I may have guessed at this long ago, now that I think back. I remember times in the Shire, especially before the Quest, when I spied an Elf in the woods, or when I looked upon the stars late at night, or even when I held your hand when you were but a lad, as I walked you down to Bagshot Row after dark. It was during those special moments when my heart would tell me plainly that there was something else. . ._

_Death comes upon all us hobbit-folk, Sam. Sometimes it is silent and swift—other times it lingers and hurts and saddens before it accomplishes its ultimate purpose. But it is nevertheless a gift, a gift I can see so much more plainly here. For though the Elves have the wherewithal to live years uncounted, we do not. We grow restless, Sam, and if you are reading this letter, you no doubt are having the same uneasy feelings I have fought these three years._

_Last September I was sitting on the wharf where we'd moored our boat (the one I suspect is not far away as you read this letter), dangling my legs over the side and thinking about you. We had just returned from visiting Bilbo's grave and, as always, I was a little lonely for him. Gandalf was in the woods nearby, but I knew he was watching me, for he knew of my struggle… I was sitting and thinking of you, and I realized that it was wrong of me to linger, perhaps putting myself in the way of decline or even illness, and no doubt causing you such pain as I had when Bilbo left me, so soon after we'd arrived. Still I was hesitant to leave, almost believing that it would still be worth it to see you again, though it could cause you heartbreak. _

_I expect you know who Eru is by now, and have lived long, happy years among the Elves before opening this letter. I also expect that you've learned many things with his help, and have at last been comforted for my leaving you too soon. Of course you know that the gift of Death is from him!_

_As I prepare to leave now, it is with the firmest assurance that he will take me to a Long Home for mortal folk like us. I've been having such vivid dreams lately—there's a road, Sam, a path really, that I'm following, and there are people around me—not many—both hobbit and big folk. We are crossing a small stream, helping each other, and ahead is a tall hill dotted with tall beech trees, their trunks silver-grey in the winter light. It's cold, as I recall, and day is brightening around us as dawn approaches. We look up the hill through the trees, and can see the sky beyond the crest, blue and cloudless, before starting to go up the winding path toward it._

_The dream always ends there. I believe it is because I will only see further once I have left this world, left my frailness and my past, and taken that first step upon a new road, a road that may join more roads somewhere on the other side. I understand now that I have to let go, and it is Eru himself who tells me to come to him. _

_You must know him now, Sam, so you cannot help but trust him, as I do._

_So. . . _

_You are really and truly reading this letter. And I think that you are ready. Oh, Sam! I do so want, with all my heart, to see you at long last. May Eru safely guide you home to me._

_Namárië,_

Frodo

Sam read the letter through again before folding it carefully and putting it away. He left the fire to die out and went to his blankets. But the night had grown old before he could finally close his eyes and let sleep take him.

ooOOoo

When he awoke, Gandalf was already busy at the fire, making them breakfast. It was still early, the grass grey with dew, and mist was rising from the river as it chattered by. Though he had been eager to begin their last march the night before, Sam now found himself thinking more of breakfast. He watched Gandalf at work as he folded his blankets and put them in his sack, and realised that there were things which must be said before. . .

He didn't rightly know what. What _would_ occur when they arrived at the place where Bilbo and Frodo lay? What happened to Frodo on the day he left? Sam's breath caught in his throat as he experienced a feeling as akin to fear as he'd felt in many a long day.

"Breakfast is hot, but it's not likely to stay that way if you keep dawdling, Samwise Gamgee!"

Sam smiled. He had never known the wizard to be particularly patient—it seemed that some things never changed. "Coming!" he called, and was soon busy filling up on sausages and eggs.

After two cups of coffee and an after-breakfast pipe, Gandalf was in a far better mood. He made to stand up, but Sam laid his hand on the wizard's arm to stop him. "Not just yet, Gandalf, if you don't mind. I'll clean up in a minute."

Gandalf's eyebrows went up, but he said nothing as Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew Frodo's letter. "Have you read this?"

"No, though I know what his thoughts were when he wrote it."

"Was he right, about Mr. Eru having a place for him to go to and all? Am I truly going there, as well? Does he come close to the mark, Gandalf, or will I be disappointed again?"

Gandalf looked up from the letter, enclosed in its envelope, and was struck by the intensity of Sam's gaze. He met it, and his answer was even stronger.

"My dear Sam, Frodo was an astute hobbit even in his teens, and grew more so under Bilbo's care and tutelage. His insight was honed during the Quest and tortured him afterwards, even here in the Undying Lands, until it was again turned outwards, growing even more. If I told you that he had pointed his finger squarely at the matter, would that satisfy you?"

Sam gazed at him another few seconds; then a slow, wide smile lit his face. He let out a long breath.

"Aye," he said, satisfied at last.

ooOOoo

The last leg of their journey was uneventful, though difficult. They climbed up and up, out of the river valley again, bearing westward and a little north, following a stony path until it reached a saddle between two tall hills, going up and over and finally resting on the other side.

It was nearly noon, but the sunlight was clear and cool and a fresh breeze had sprung up. The woods continued down the western slope and, off in the distance, Sam thought he could see water.

But he was no longer interested in water, or trees, or anything else.

For just ahead of them, nestled under an ancient, low-branched tree, was a small lawn of grass ringed with low, flat stones. At the far end were two larger, taller stones, and on their faces were Elvish letters.

He stood for awhile, looking, before he roused himself and put off his cloak and sack. Glancing at Gandalf, who nodded without speaking, Sam slowly walked toward the stones.

As he approached, he could see that they were indeed made of the same blue stone as the Elven Hall. Not a fleck of moss or dirt lay upon them, and the pure quartz sparkled when intermittent rays darted through the limbs of the great tree above the stones.

He came closer, and the inscriptions became clear as his eyes grew accustomed to the shade:

**Bilbo BagginsFrodo Baggins**

He looked back at Gandalf, who stood at a distance. "I thought they would say something more," he said.

"Their deeds are written on our hearts, Sam. Frodo wanted it this way."

"What happens now?" Sam asked, turning back to the stones, wanting to touch them but holding back.

"We wait," Gandalf answered, drawing closer now and looking down at the stones with blended joy and sadness.

"I don't understand, Gandalf," Sam whispered, the old anguish returning at the sight of the place where his master's body lay. "I don't understand how I can feel this awful when I know Mr. Frodo is just off somewhere else."

"Neither do I, Sam. I feel it, too." The Istari came to stand beside the hobbit and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We don't have to understand it, do we? As long as we know that he is well?"

Sam nodded, then looked up at Gandalf. "Will I see you again? Some day?"

"Our roads seek different destinations, as far as I can tell. But they crossed in Middle Earth, Sam. Who is to say that they will not, one day, cross again?"

"Or join," Sam said.

If Gandalf had any reply to this, he kept it to himself.

The afternoon passed slowly, Sam spending it in the company the one person he felt most comfortable with in the world next to Frodo and Rose. They talked of mutual memories at first, of days in Hobbiton, of Bag End and Bagshot Row. Then their conversation drifted to days when Aragorn was a child, to Bilbo's great adventure, to days before written history, when the world was newly sung. It felt to Sam as if an exquisite fabric were being woven before his eyes, blending peoples, stories, adventures and songs into one intricate tapestry.

The sun was low in the sky and they were talking about the green field near Bag End, and the mallorn that replaced the beloved Party Tree that had been cut down while they were gone.

And Sam felt they had come full circle, as if they had come back home at last, their journey ended.

They had come home after the Quest, too, but home was all wrong then, and there was more to do...

"Gandalf," he said, his voice low and clear.

"Yes, Sam?" Gandalf straightened imperceptibly.

"I'm ready." Sam lifted his eyes from his hands, locking gazes with Mithrandir, and suddenly grinned. "I think I know how Mr. Frodo felt in Rivendell when he volunteered to take It to the Mountain," he chuckled, irony in his tone. "I'm ready to go, but I don't know the way."

Gandalf smiled and stood. "I would be honoured to show you, as I did Frodo. But there is one more thing. If I may?" He held up his hand, poised but an inch from Sam's head. Sam nodded and closed his eyes.

The wizard placed his long fingers upon Sam's crown, caressing his sandy curls and speaking in a long, slow language. Soon the hobbit relaxed and fell gently into waiting arms, wandering in a deep sleep. Then he dreamed…

ooOOoo

_Gandalf knelt before a troubled Frodo and placed his hands upon his shoulders. Sam stood just outside the ring of stones, watching. He tried to move closer, to move around to the side so that he could see both their faces as they spoke, and found that he could. Sam gasped aloud as he stared at his master…_

_For this was the Frodo of the Party Tree, the just come of age, laughing, healthy, vibrant, strong and mischievous Baggins, Heir-to-Bag-End Frodo, of whom he had not seen the like since the day they started for Crickhollow in the company of Merry and Pippin._

_None of his previous dreams had shown Sam such a close view; none of them had revealed to him just how renewed and alive Frodo had become, though he suspected. Elbereth, just the sight of him was worth all his years of loneliness!_

_Slowly Sam grew aware that Frodo's and Gandalf's conversation was continuing, and that Frodo was troubled still…_

"_Am I making the right decision, Gandalf? Will he be all right when he comes? Won't it be cruelly hard on him at first, hoping to find me here and discovering I've gone away?" Frodo's voice was shaking with grief._

"_Now, dear Frodo, this is not like you!" Gandalf admonished, stroking Frodo's cheek with a finger. "You have made this decision on your own; you have written the final letter."_

"_I know," Frodo whispered, reaching up to wipe his tears away. He looked chagrined to find that more were falling. "I'm ashamed to say it, but I'm afraid, Gandalf, afraid to go on, yet afraid to stay. I'm already a world apart from Sam—if I leave, it will be two worlds that separate us."_

_Gandalf did not offer solace or advice. Sam could see the wizard's own struggle as he waited for Frodo to see what he must do._

_It came quickly. _

_Frodo's face grew stern with resolution and he drew himself up, wiping his face with his sleeve. He let out a breath and looked over his shoulder at the eastern hills before turning back to the wizard._

"_It won't be long now, 'til he comes. When he does, look after him, Gandalf. Look after him as you did me, promise me that. I can bear to leave if I have your word."_

"_You have it, and more, dear friend. Go now, and be at peace."_

_Gandalf pulled Frodo to him then, and he seemed to swoon. The wizard carried him to a nearby tree, where he sat, holding the hobbit as tenderly as he would his own son. Sam followed them and sat on the grass, his heart hushed as though waiting for the bell to toll in the Elven Hall. He saw the gentle rise and fall of Frodo's breast as Gandalf held him, saw it grow slower…_

_Then Frodo's eyes moved for an instant under the lids, and he sighed._

_Gandalf placed his hand over the hobbit's heart and waited. Then, carefully, he laid Frodo upon the turf and folded his hands over his breast. Standing, he turned to the West, and began to sing the Farewell song of the Elves in the dying daylight:_

_Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen…_

ooOOoo

Sam felt strong arms around him and opened his eyes. He lay in Gandalf's embrace, much as Frodo had done in his dream, and he no longer felt afraid.

"He was right to go on," he murmured, feeling comfortable and secure in the wizard's hold. "Trust Frodo to—" his voice drifted away.

"To do the right thing," Gandalf finished.

And so they waited together, while the late afternoon melted away and the Sun took her trail into the West, casting long, slanting beams through the trees as she set. They waited still as the moon, full and clear, slowly rose above the eastern hills, his cooler, softer light fingering wizard and hobbit.

There was no more talk until nearly the end, when Sam stirred and opened his eyes. He reached up and tugged gently on Gandalf's beard, smiling. "I've always wanted to do that," he whispered.

Suddenly overcome, Gandalf could only reply by stroking the side of Sam's face, his fingers following the gentle curve of the ear up to it's tip.

Sam sighed. "I have to go now," he said, reaching for Gandalf's hand and leaning his face into it. "I'll miss you."

"And I," Gandalf said, unable to say more.

Then Sam broke his gaze and looked away to the stars and bright moon through the branches, his eyes filling with tears.

Then his expression changed, and a look of fierce wonder came over his features, and he half-rose in Gandalf's arms.

"Well, I'll be," he said. "Who'd have thought…"

Then he fell back, his face alight with joy and awe, his arm stretched out, reaching for something the wizard could not see.

"Frodo!"

ooOOoo

So it was that Gandalf returned to the Elven Hall at nightfall at the end of the third growing season, carrying naught but his own gear and the memories of three hobbits of the Shire, Ringbearers all.

In the western hills, north of the river and west of the Sundering Sea, three blue stones rise above three resting places for mortals of Middle Earth, who had claimed their Gift and departed from the circle of the World forever.

And over them all, Eärendil shines his wayfarer's light, as he will every night, until the world is mended.

The End


End file.
